


A Voice On The Radio

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: Different First Meeting, Bartok - Freeform, Billy the Skull - Freeform, Bit Romantic (for us), Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Loneliness, M/M, Nerves, Unilock, collegelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: The radio brings a voice into Sherlock's flat and exposes him to what he hadn't realised he'd been missing.





	1. Unexpected Company

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> We aim to update once a month. All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. We've got quite a few stories, and we invite you to get lost in them. **To keep up with our new stories, we hope you'll subscribe.**
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and for being a great community!

Sherlock stood at the window, staring out into the dark street. It was rainy, and the puddles were reflecting the moon. In some ways, it was beautiful. In another way, it was not -- Sherlock should not be up admiring the rain and moon, he should be asleep as he had an exam in the morning. He wasn't worried about passing the test -- it would be easy -- but he was worried about sleeping through it. 

Sherlock Holmes was a night owl. He rarely went to bed; instead he would crash at his desk or on the sofa when his body finally determined it'd had enough and demanded a rest. Both his brain and his body were wide awake right now. If he fell asleep at six, like he had the last few nights, he knew it was likely to sleep through his alarm. Why would any rational person schedule an exam for eight in the morning? It was ridiculous, but it was happening whether he liked it or not. He had two options really: go to bed right now and pray for sleep or accept that he'd be staying up all night.

He moved over to the sofa and flicked through the boring shows on television. He checked his email. He made a cup of tea. Finally, he turned on the radio, hoping maybe there'd be something interesting there. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of tea. Then he closed his eyes and listened to the voice coming through the speakers.

John settled into his seat, rubbing his eyes as he yawned loudly. What a lousy shift -- who was up listening to classical music at this time of night anyway? But it was money, and though it wasn't much, every bit helped. That was what he kept telling himself. 

"Good evening, folks. Some weather today, huh? I had my heavy coat in the morning and by the afternoon it felt like summer!" 

The sound guy rolled his eyes, but it only encouraged John. No one was listening, it didn't matter what he said. 

"Anyway, here's a . . . piano concerto. Just in case you're not sleeping already, this should help." He chuckled softly. "No, it's a really lovely piece. Enjoy."

John clicked off and leaned back in the seat. The classical pieces were long enough so he could work on homework between them. Another plus, he reminded himself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the presenter's joke, but he loved this piece of music. He put out his cigarette and finished his tea and then moved over to the sofa. He set his alarm -- just in case -- and then lay down, losing himself in the music.

John's head moved subtly with the song. When it ended, he started the next one without too much talking. He had to spread it out, so he could keep up this silly talk without running out of ideas.

Sherlock enjoyed the next few pieces that were played. His mind went into the music as his body began relaxing. Soon he was drifting to sleep.

John offered more one-sided banter between the next few pieces. The night passed by slowly, but John got a lot of work done. He'd a few hours to catch a nap before classes. 

"Thanks for the company, fellow vamps. Have a good night," John said before he started the last song of his shift. He hummed along with this one as he packed up. This wasn't his favourite genre of music by any means, but this song always made him feel nice. He almost always ended with the same one. 

Sherlock's dreams were confusing so when his alarm went off at seven, his head felt foggy and he was not in the mood to go take an exam. He switched off the radio, which was now playing an obnoxious pop song, and quickly showered before heading out.

The exam was easy, but by the time he'd finished, Sherlock felt properly exhausted. He made his way back to his flat, trying to decide whether or not to lie down -- his brain and body wanted him to, but he knew sleeping in the day meant not sleeping in the night. However, it didn't matter. He was practically asleep before his head hit the pillow.

John skipped time in the library to have lunch with his team mates, knowing he'd have plenty of time to work on his homework when he went to the station that night. Greg was trying to talk him into a party they were going to, but John didn't feel like leaving in the middle of it for work. It was much easier to just skip it this time. The topic turned to John's job and the 'snooze fest' he hosted every night. He knew they didn't really listen to the show -- classical was definitely not their type of music -- but John didn't mind at all. He didn't want them listening anyway. God knew the calls he'd get if they bothered to care about it.  He went back to his room and took a nap before he had to go in. It was dark when he woke up again. He put on comfortable clothes and packed up his work before heading off. 

When Sherlock woke up, he knew he'd slept too late. In some ways it didn't matter -- he had nothing to do tomorrow so there was no reason to fret about his sleep schedule. He made himself a cup of tea and smoked a cigarette before checking his email and reading the papers online. He went out for a walk and when he got back, he decided to read. For some reason, he turned on the radio again, hoping to catch the show he'd heard last night.

"You know how when you wake up and it's dark? Doesn't feel like morning, does it? I mean, it really could be midnight, couldn't it?" John chuckled. "Regardless, I got up in time and here I am, keeping all of you insomniacs company. We're starting tonight off with . . . looks like a symphony featuring a solo cellist. Hmm." John started the song and took out his notebooks to start his homework. 

Sherlock tried to guess the song and was pleased when he was correct. The presenter didn't seem entirely convinced by his music choices, and Sherlock wondered why. Perhaps it was just a persona; maybe he thought classical music wasn't that interesting. Sherlock found himself annoyed by the guy, which was stupid really. Whether the presenter liked the music or not, Sherlock did and he'd just try to block out the talking if he needed to.

When the piece finished John queued up the next one. "The cello sounded really nice, it turns out. It's good music for homework, I have to admit. Or studying. Don't neglect your studies, kids." He started up the song and went back to work. 

So the presenter was a student, Sherlock thought and then wondered if he was someone he knew. Unlikely. Sherlock didn't really know anyone from uni -- he rarely spoke to anyone. In fact, it was kind of odd hearing another person's voice in the flat. Odd, but kind of nice actually.

John started the next song with no comment, stuck on a question for chemistry. When the song was over and he still hadn't figured it out, he joked about it before starting the next one.

"Any of you night owls know anything about orbitals?" John sighed. "I just don't get the weird letter order. Anyway. Looks like this one is just the violin -- I've always liked that."

Sherlock glanced at the radio as if it had asked him a question. He did know about orbitals. Was the guy's question a real request or just banter? He Googled the radio station, and it did have a call-in number. He looked at the radio again; it was staring at him as if he were interrupting their conversation. He dialled the number.

"Our next -- what?" John looked at the phone in front of him, the red light blinking. "We have a caller," he said slowly. "Hello? You're on the air."

"I don't want to be on the radio," Sherlock said. "I do know about orbitals, though."

"About . . .? Oh yeah, I'm a bit stuck. Hold on." John started playing a new song and clicked over to another line. "You're not on the radio anymore. I'm surprised you're up."

"Why? You don't even know me," Sherlock said.

"I suppose that's true. It's just so late," John said.

"I suppose that's true as well," Sherlock said. "What do you need to know and why?"

"I've been given a list of elements and I have to draw out the orbitals, but they're complex. I have an exam at the end of the week."

"Fine then," Sherlock said. He did his best to explain things, trying to keep it as simple as possible. He wondered if this guy was stupid, which made him think that perhaps he was the stupid one -- why had he called in in the first place? He needed to get off the phone as soon as possible. "Got it?" he asked.

"Uh . . . not exactly," John said. "But hey, don't worry about it. I usually scrape by when the exam comes."

"Why are you doing a classical music radio show?" Sherlock asked. He'd started a new conversation, though that was the opposite of what he'd meant to do.

"That's what I've been told to play at night," John said. 

"Do you always do what you're told?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, this is my job. I don't want to lose it." He moved away from the phone and queued up the next song.

"Right then," Sherlock said. "Well, I'm going to hang up the phone now."

"Okay," John said. "Um, good night. Thanks for your help."

"Right," Sherlock said. "Anytime." Then he hung up the phone and sat there, staring at the radio for a few moments. That was an unusual disruption. But surely it was harmless enough. He got up and made himself another cup of tea before settling in on the sofa and enjoying the music.

John hung up and stared at the phone. Well, he supposed there was a first time for everything. Someone was listening after all.


	2. A Proper Conversation

Sherlock fell asleep on the sofa again. When he woke, the radio was talking about the news. It was noon. He got up and turned on the kettle but decided to shower before he poured it. After checking his email and reading the papers, he packed up his bag and headed to the library. He was trying to finish a paper – not for class, just for himself – and needed to get some research done.

When John ended the show that morning he packed up and thought about the caller from earlier in the night. He felt a bit self conscious about his silly banter -- a listener had never been as real as last night. He tried to forget it as he went to get some rest before class.

When Sherlock headed back, he stopped at the news agents to buy some cigarettes and sweets. He climbed up the stairs to his flat and made a cup of tea. He turned on the radio, but they were playing ridiculous sounds that he’d barely call music so he turned it off again and flicked through the channels on the television. As he drank his tea, it crossed his mind that perhaps that guy from last night had been at the library with him – maybe he was the tall guy reading Dickens or the guy in the blue shirt asleep at the desk? What did it matter anyway? He watched the news and finished his tea before getting up to make himself some toast.

John took an impromptu nap slumped over his desk while doing homework, dreaming that he was interviewing a guest on his show, a blurry faced guest who talked on and on about science. When John woke up he glared at his text book as if that had ruined a good dream. He got ready, packed up his things and left for the station.

After his meal, Sherlock decided to work on an experiment based on the information he’d found at the library. He was mindful of the clock until he realised that it was because he was looking forward to turning on the radio. Was it just the music he was looking forward to? Obviously not, he wasn’t that stupid -- he could play music right now if he wanted to. He was looking forward to hearing the presenter, having a voice in the flat besides his own. A kind of non-interactive conversation, which were the ones Sherlock was best at.

John set up his books and got ready to take over the show. He was nervous, and he didn't like it. Silly nonsense didn't come so easily tonight. He tried to shake it off. What did it matter what a stranger thought? 

"Hello. Thanks for joining me again tonight. You know, exams are coming up soon and I think this soft music will be helpful for studying. Tell your friends, everyone tune in. A helpful listener helped me with chem last night, perhaps a calc enthusiast is listening tonight?" He chuckled softly. "Let's kick off the night with Tchaikovsky."

Sherlock smiled as he heard the man’s welcome. Then he made himself stop smiling and concentrated on his experiment. He wondered if the presenter would be interested in what he was doing. It wasn’t related to orbitals – did the guy like chemistry at all? The music choice was nice and helped his concentration as he did his final test.

John steadily worked through his calculus as he played a couple songs in a row. Then he got to chatting again, only now he felt like he was talking to the caller. "You know that feeling when you're up too late and suddenly you just start sharing too much? There's this table in the library -- top floor, back left corner -- and I swear it's a different world. It's so quiet and calm, it's one of my favourite spots. Imagine listening to this in your favourite place," he said, starting a soft, slow piece.

Sherlock looked up at the radio. Was the man talking to him -- had he seen Sherlock in the library earlier? Wait, he didn’t know who Sherlock was. He cleaned up the experiment as he listened to the next song. After making a cup of tea and lighting a cigarette, he sat down in his chair. His phone was sitting on his leg. He picked it up and set it down. Then picked it up again. He rang the number he called last night, not entirely sure what he’d say when the guy answered.

John saw the red light blinking on the phone. His stomach flipped nervously. "This is John," he answered. 

“Mathematics is an important part of science,” Sherlock said, surprising himself.

John grinned stupidly. "I've noticed," he said. 

“Why are you taking classes in things you so dislike?”

"I have to," he said. 

“Why?”

"I want to be a doctor," he said.

“I see,” Sherlock said. “Could I ask – are you wearing your lab coat now?”

"What?" John laughed. "No. I'm not a doctor yet. Hence the orbitals and calculus."

“I’m wearing one,” Sherlock said. “That’s why I asked. Not that I’m a doctor. I’m just . . . unusual.” He groaned to himself – what on earth was he doing?

"Do you work in a lab?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment -- did he really want this guy to know who he was? Acting foolish on the phone was one thing. “God, no,” he said. “I’m a . . . housepainter.”

"Oh, really? No overalls then?" John teased.

“That’s what I wear when I’m working,” Sherlock said. “The lab coat is for leisure.” He took a drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out. “The song’s almost finished.”

"I know, I have the next one queued up. Why do you wear a lab coat to relax?"

“I find science relaxing,” Sherlock said, which wasn’t quite true but was close enough.

"Oh. You must be really smart."

“I am,” Sherlock said. “For a housepainter.”

"Are you in school now?"

“No . . . I didn’t go,” Sherlock said. “Straight to work instead. Education didn’t suit me.”

"Oh. Well, at the moment, that sounds quite appealing. Do you like maths as well?"

“Yes, it’s useful,” Sherlock said. “For mixing up paints, obviously.”

"Right. I know it's important," he said. "I just don't like it." 

“You don’t like maths, you don’t like classical music -- is there anything you do like?” Sherlock asked.

"I don't mind classical music!" 

“Then why are you chatting through it instead of listening?” Sherlock asked.

"You're chatting too. You're a guest -- I can't just hang up on you."

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to tie up the line -- I’m sure you’ve got other callers trying to speak with you.”

"No one else is calling . . . you're the only one that ever has, actually."

Sherlock smiled. "I called to help you with your coursework, but it seems I haven't really done that at all," he said.

"That's okay. Coursework is boring," John said, clearly implying this was anything but. 

"It isn't," Sherlock said. "Or rather I don't imagine it would be."

John smiled softly. Was he lying about being a student? John didn't ask. "Well, there are things more interesting."

"Like this music?" Sherlock said. "Nice choice."

"Thanks," John said. He queued up the next song. "There's other interesting things."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "Well, I should go," he said. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to help more."

"It's okay," John said. 

"Perhaps some Bartok next?" Sherlock suggested.

"Okay," John said. "Can I have a name so I can dedicate the song?"

"No," Sherlock said and then quickly hung up the phone. He stood up to make more tea and as he waited for the kettle to boil, he lit another cigarette. That was all a bit stupid. He still wasn't entirely sure why he'd called in the first place and then why he'd told lies. It was all just . . . stupid.

"Oh," John said surprised. He hung up slowly and turned to the computer to find Bartok. "Um, this next song is for my very first caller, my first request. Three in the morning and someone is actually listening. Enjoy, mysterious stranger."

Sherlock lay down on the sofa and listened to the music. This was enough -- the occasional voice and the music filling the flat. Those things were enough.


	3. Stupidity and Loneliness

That Friday and Saturday, John buckled down to finish all of the work he had slowly attempted at the station. He was eager to get back to work for the first time in a long time. He wanted to talk to that caller again. What did it mean that he had called twice now?

Sherlock spent most of Friday working with his brother, who was annoying but useful. He always learned a lot from Mycroft. However, Sherlock felt awkward -- like at any time his brother might quiz him about the radio guy. He even considered bringing it up himself, just to get the suspense over with, but he knew there was no way Mycroft would know and it was obviously just his embarrassment that was making him feel that way.

When Sherlock got home, he actually felt quite tired. He'd done a lot of walking but more importantly, he'd done a lot of thinking and reading and thinking some more. That was his favourite kind of work. It was exhausting but worth it. He wrote up some notes and ordered a book his brother had mentioned, and then sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea. He looked at the clock -- it was too early for his radio friend, so he flicked through the television channels as he drank his tea.

Suddenly Sherlock opened his eyes. He was now lying flat on the sofa, turned away from the telly. He was annoyed at himself for falling asleep. He got up and turned on the radio, recognising the piece immediately. But when the presenter spoke, it wasn't his presenter's voice; it was a woman's. Sherlock looked at the clock and wondered if he was too early. Then he realised that it was a Friday, and if this John guy was a student, he probably didn't work every night. He was embarrassed by his mistaken assumption and also embarrassed by his feeling of disappointment. He lay back down on the sofa and concentrated on the music. It was another Bartok, and he loved it. But it wasn't the same as the other nights when John's voice was here as well.

On Sunday John went to a party with Greg. He looked around at all of the boys there. Was one of them the caller? Would he know if he saw him? The next morning, John sat for his chemistry exam and spent half the time thinking of something clever to say about it when he got on the air later. He felt silly, but he hoped that boy was listening again. He wondered if he'd missed John over the weekend, then felt sillier for thinking it. He was just a stranger after all.

Sherlock went to a lecture on Monday. He had spent the remainder of the weekend reading and working and hadn't turned on the radio again. He told himself this was because he was over that little folly, but the truth was he didn't want to feel stupid again. The lecture was good -- he got lost in the professor's words and ideas and his head felt full when he went home. He'd spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about it all, which was much better than thinking about a voice.

That night, John sat in his chair eagerly, not even bothering with his books just yet. "Last time I was here, I had, if you can believe it, another caller! Exciting stuff. But in the moment of euphoria at having some company, I forgot to end the night with my favourite piece, so I will play it now to start this night off."

Sherlock was sitting, staring at the radio. He didn't even care that he'd given in and turned it on -- he'd had a good day and wanted someone to talk to. Well, not someone -- John, John's voice. He wouldn't call tonight -- just this was as close to a conversation as he needed. He finished up his notes as he listened to the music.

The night was passing slowly. After the first few songs John got his books out. He'd been foolish to think that his caller would be listening again or that he'd want to chat again. Why would he want to talk to a complete stranger? Why did John want to, for that matter? Midway through the night he paused to talk again. "Easier work this time, but a bit boring." He paused to queue up a song. "If anyone else is up working, here's something soft for you."

Sherlock now had the radio on his desk, facing him. There was something comforting about it being right here, as if they were having a chat. He wondered what it'd be like if the guy was really here -- but he couldn't imagine it because he had no idea what he looked like. He closed up his laptop and decided to treat himself to a glass of wine. He carried it and the radio over to the sofa with him, closing his eyes and listening.

John queued up several songs and went back to working on his homework. He was trying to accept the fact that there would be no call tonight.

Sherlock found the combination of the music and the voice easy to listen to. Four songs in a row played with no speaking, though, and he began to wonder if the guy had a short shift tonight. He picked up his phone and then remembered he'd deleted the radio station's number over the weekend when he'd decided he was being silly. He looked it up again, just in case. Within fifteen minutes, he was dialing it.

John couldn't help the hopeful jump his stomach did when he saw the red light on the phone. "This is John."

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Yes, I'm okay," John said.

"Good," Sherlock said. "I was worried you'd gone." He was saying words aloud, hearing how stupid they sounded but he couldn't stop himself.

"No, I'm fine," John said. "I didn't think you'd call."

"Did you want me to?" Sherlock asked, surprised. That thought hadn't crossed his mind.

"I -- yeah," John admitted. "The company is nice. No one ever calls."

"You don't even know me," Sherlock said.

"You don't know me either," John said.

"I know but --" Sherlock stopped. But what? He didn't have the answer to that question so instead he asked, "You don't work at the weekends?"

John grinned, imagining this boy listening just for him. "No, I don't. They do a different show then."

Sherlock lit a cigarette. "Why don't your friends call in then?" he asked. "I'm guessing you've got some."

"They think this is lame," John said.

"Well, I don't," Sherlock said. "But I'm only a housepainter so I'm not sure my opinion means much." He swallowed and prepared himself to say something else surprising. "And your girlfriend -- what does she think?"

John bit his lip to keep from grinning again. The sound guy mimed shooting himself and John flicked him off. "I don't have a girlfriend," he said.

"Right," Sherlock said. "Anyone else of importance in your life . . ?"

"Just friends and family, the usual," he said. "Oh, and my mysterious night time caller," he added before he could chicken out. Why pretend he didn't look forward to this? He bit his lip nervously, waiting for the response.

"I'm not . . . we don't know each other," Sherlock said, a bit nervously. "I should go . . . you have work."

"Just pushing a button," John said quietly. "Sorry. That's fine. Thanks for chatting for a bit." John hung up quickly and silently berated himself for being so stupid.

Sherlock held the phone in his hand a while before setting it down on the table. He was going to have to get a hold of himself. He needed to stop making these phone calls if he was going to act like such an idiot about them. But he was an idiot about these things. So, he deduced, he needed to stop making these phone calls.

Over the next few days, John focused on his coursework. When he did his show he was brief, doing only small jokes and song introductions. The red light didn't blink on the phone, and he hated that he was still looking for it. He'd gone too far and scared the guy off. But he was a stranger. It shouldn't matter so much. 

Sherlock did not turn on the radio again all week. He went to lectures, did some readings at home, made himself occasionally eat and sleep, but when he fancied listening to music, he listened to his own.

But in truth, the whole ridiculous thing with the radio guy had made him realise he was lonely. He didn't crave parties or acquaintances, but he now knew that he wished he had a friend. One friend who was interesting to him and interested in him. One friend whose voice would sometimes appear in his flat. But he didn't have that and he didn't know how to go about finding that. And quite frankly he had little faith he'd been able to be someone's friend even if he knew how to find one.


	4. Advice And A Decision

On Thursday, the day was nice enough that John went out for a little walk. He ended up at a nearby cafe to do some of his required reading. As he stood in line he looked around for a free table. 

Sherlock had been up early meeting with his brother. Well, he hadn't actually gone to bed yet so when he got Mycroft's 8am text request, he just went straight over. However, his brother didn't actually have any work for him; it was yet another lecture about focusing on his studies so Mycroft could secure him a position after graduation. Sherlock didn't think he wanted to work with Mycroft -- he wanted something of his own as a career. At the moment, he had no idea what that might be, but he wanted to be more independent. He didn't want to feel like his brother's burden.

He stopped into a cafe to get a cup of tea to take home with him. There were quite a few students here, but he did his best to ignore them. He wasn't going to find a friend in this crowd.

John made it up to the counter. "Um, can I get a peppermint mocha?" he asked, glancing at the display but deciding against a snack. He paid and went to the end of the counter to wait for his drink.

Sherlock turned his head sharply. He knew that voice. It was him, from the radio. He was sure of it.

"For John," the barista said loudly. He looked up and moved forward for his drink.

"Thank you," John said, smiling before he turned to leave. "Excuse me." He passed between people waiting in line and went to an empty table near the door. 

Sherlock watched him walk away. He was handsome. Incredibly handsome. Sherlock had never chosen that as an adjective to describe a person before but that was precisely what John the radio presenter was. Handsome.

He moved forward in the line and ordered his tea. He couldn't remember if he had told John a name, but he knew if he had it wouldn't have been his real one so it was "Sherlock" the server had written on his cup. He carried it over near John's table, standing by the counter at the window, trying to watch him without being observed himself. He needed to memorise everything about this man.

Sherlock watched John for about a half hour. By that time, he could no longer reasonably be pretending to drink his now empty cup of tea. He sneaked past him and headed out the door, walking quickly toward the flat.

John stayed at the cafe for a couple hours before heading home again. He took a nap and then got ready for work. He could write his essay tonight and have the weekend free.

Back at home, Sherlock was flat on the sofa, trying to figure out what precisely was going on. He heard a man's voice, felt compelled to phone him a number of times, and now just saw him and couldn't stop looking at him. This was all highly unusual and not logical at all, but he knew there were no coincidences. It must mean something.

At work that night John started the night with the Bartok song his caller had requested. He opened his laptop and started typing up his essay as he listened to the music. 

Sherlock heard the song and wondered. He wasn't working or reading -- he just sat there and thought.

The absence of the red light on the phone sat heavier than John wanted it to. Why couldn't he let this go? He finished the night with his favourite before packing up his things and heading home. He couldn't wait to get into bed and sleep.

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair when the sun woke him. The radio played the news. He hadn't called, but wasn't sure if he should be proud of that or not. He got up and stretched, his body stiff from not moving all night. He made a cup of tea and then showered and then walked down to his landlady's door, tapping lightly.

"What's up?" Mrs Hudson asked as she greeted him.

"Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?" he asked her.

She looked up at his face. She'd known Sherlock Holmes a long time, since he was a child, and she knew what this look meant. "Of course," she said. She went and turned off her television and climbed the steps to his flat.

Sherlock had already poured the tea and carried two cups into the sitting room. She sat down and took one. "So . . ." she said. "How are your studies going?"

"Do you think I should have more friends?" he asked abruptly.

"I don't know," she said, leaning back a little. "Do you?"

"I've lived here for over two years and only you and my brother have ever come into the flat," he said. "Does that seem unusual?"

"You're very focused on you work," she said.

"Is that code for I'm strange?"

"Of course not," she said. She took a sip of tea. "Besides," she added, "your strangeness is one of your best features."

"I am so strange that no one can bear to be around me?" he asked. "That no one will ever . . . like me?"

She looked over at him and knew this was about something specific. "Is there someone you want to like you?" she asked tentatively.

"I don't know," he lied. "I just . . . it'd be nice to have someone else besides me around sometimes, I guess." He looked over. "Someone my age, I mean."

"Right," she said. "Like . . .?"

"Like . . . I don't know," Sherlock said, taking a gulp of tea. "Like a guy I heard on the radio maybe," he added softly.

"I see," she said, even though she wasn't quite sure she did. "And he doesn't like you?"

"He doesn't know me," Sherlock said. "I've spoken to him a few times on the phone. I called into the show to . . . make a request. I don't even know why it matters, but then yesterday . . . I saw him."

She did her best to watch Sherlock without really looking at him. "And you . . . fancy him a bit?" she asked softly.

Sherlock stared at his mug. "A bit maybe," he mumbled.

"All right then," she said. "Why don't you invite him round, see if maybe he . . . might like you as well."

"We don't know each other," Sherlock exhaled. "Why would he like someone he doesn't know?"

"Well, you like him," she said. "And besides, he can get to know you and then maybe he'll like you."

"That won't happen," Sherlock huffed.

"How do you know until you try?"

"Well, it's never happened before."

"Okay," she said, having another sip. "Have you tried before?"

"No," Sherlock admitted. "I'm so . . . I'm sure most people my age have already sorted all this business."

"I wouldn't be too certain," she said softly. "It doesn't matter anyway -- you're not like most people your age and that's what makes you special."

He rolled his eyes.

"And perhaps that's precisely what this chap will see that you are . . . different. Perhaps that's exactly what he likes."

"I don't know . . ."

She finished her tea. "Why don't you give him a call and find out?"

"Perhaps," he said.

They sat quietly for a few moments and then Mrs Hudson stood up to leave. "Have a good think," she said. "I know I'm not nearly as clever as you are, but I think calling him would be a good idea."

Sherlock watched her go. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired so he got up and went to go sleep in his bed for the first time this week.

John went to his class the next day and turned in his essay early. He was excited for the free weekend. He texted Greg to see if anything was going on. He needed to put that stranger out of his head properly. This wasn't good for him. He got ready and headed out when it was time for the party.

When Sherlock woke up he was a bit confused -- he wasn't sure what time it was or even why he was in bed. He rolled over and looked at his phone. It was evening; he'd slept much longer than he'd intended, but clearly he must have needed it. He rolled out of bed and showered to wake himself up completely and then he got to work, tying up the loose ends of the week. In the space of five cups of tea, he'd answered all his emails, finished his assignments and eaten a bit of food. He was looking forward to tonight. He'd made his decision: he was going to try to make John his friend.

Sherlock turned on the radio at eleven, ready to make the phonecall. But it wasn't John's voice -- of course, it was the weekend and someone else was working. Sherlock felt crushed and then he felt embarrassed. He turned off the radio, not sure he could get through the weekend without worrying himself out of his decision.

John stayed at the party later than he usually would have. He didn't drink very much but he enjoyed the company and the noise, keeping himself distracted. Unfortunately Anderson started the teasing about the 'lame job' and John thought about his caller. Was he listening now or had he given up since John scared him away? 

Sherlock spent most of the night reading and pacing and lying on the sofa pretending that none of this had ever happened. In the morning he got up and went to bed.


	5. Sherlock Tries

Sherlock woke to someone knocking on his door. He got up and opened the door to Mrs Hudson.

"Did you call him?" she said, stepping in.

"No," Sherlock said, going over and sitting on the sofa.

"What have you been doing all day?" she said, opening the curtains. "It's . . . unpleasant in here."

"Nothing . . . sleeping," Sherlock said.

She sat down next to him. "Why didn't you call?" she asked. 

"He doesn't work over the weekend," he said. "But I'm thinking that perhaps it's a bad--"

"Stop it," she interrupted. "Stop thinking." She stood up. "Go get yourself dressed properly and then come down to mine. We're having dinner together."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment and then said, "Fine."

Dinner was actually a good distraction. Mrs Hudson asked him about his studies and experiments, and he found himself talking freely and relaxing a little bit. With her he had a glass of wine and when he got up to his flat, he had one more, which clouded his thoughts just enough that he could sleep. He spent Sunday doing some work -- inventing a challenge for himself which he studied all day and then checking himself via an experiment that night. He crashed out on the sofa but did not spend much time thinking about the radio.

That night John was browsing the internet while he listened to music. He found himself researching Bartok, wondering why he was even bothering. Was he going to say something clever to try to intrigue his mystery caller? He'd only be disappointed. When he started dozing off at his desk he got up and moved to his bed, picking up a book instead. He fell asleep shortly afterwards, the book open on his chest. 

Monday morning had John in class again. He was thinking about his show that night and how to work in the new things he'd learned. He had even taken notes. 

Sherlock went to lecture Monday afternoon and did his best to focus on the professor's words. He went home and spent the new few hours flicking through channels and drifting in and out of his Mind Palace. He tried not to pay attention to the time but was of course entirely aware when the clock's hand moved to eleven.

When John got to the radio station that night, he took out his notes and started the night with little facts he'd learned earlier. He dedicated the next hour to music from Bartok and spent the whole time watching the phone. He was torturing himself and he didn't care. 

At 11.15, Sherlock's radio was on and he was in his chair with a glass of wine. He heard John's voice and listened to two Bartok pieces. Then he got out his phone and dialed the number.

"Are you playing Bartok for me?" he asked, when John answered the phone.

John answered the phone too quickly to pretend he hadn't been waiting for it. He flushed at the question. 

"I'm sorry about what I said, I know we're just strangers."

"You didn't say anything wrong," Sherlock said. "It's just . . . I don't know why I keep wanting to talk to you." He lit a cigarette and took a drag, hoping the smoke would either cloud or clear his mind -- he wasn't sure which would be easier.

John bit his lip. "I don't know, but I'm glad you keep calling."

"Why?" Sherlock said. "You don't even know who I am."

"You don't know who I am either," he said. 

"I do," Sherlock said.

"You've just heard me on the radio," he said.

"No," Sherlock said. "I've seen you." He swallowed awkwardly. "I know you're handsome."

John flushed darker. "When? I mean, how did you know it was me?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quickly. "It was pure chance -- I recognised your voice. I wasn't . . . looking for you, but then I found you."

"Where?" John asked, wondering if he'd been at the party.

"At the cafe," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry. . . I don't know what I'm doing really . . ."

"Are you a student?" He asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I suppose I am," he said quietly.

"How come you lied?" John asked. 

"I don't know why I'm doing any of the things I'm doing," Sherlock confessed. "It's just . . . I think I like you."

John gripped the phone and bit his lip. He started another song. "Do you want to get some food or something?"

"Yes, good," Sherlock said quickly. "You mean together, right?"

"Of course. Maybe Friday night?" He asked. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "What will we do?"

"Um . . . we could get dinner," he said.

"Of course, sorry," Sherlock said. "That sounds good." He swallowed. "Where? When?" He was worried about having to go somewhere with a lot of students.

"There's a restaurant called Willow. It sounds odd, but it's good and has a bit of everything. Maybe around eight?"

"Yes, that's better," Sherlock said. "I mean, that will be perfect." He stood up and moved to turn the kettle on. "Will there be more Bartok tonight?"

"There could be," John smiled. 

"I'll listen then," Sherlock said. "Have you got my number -- just in case you change your mind?"

"I won't change my mind, but will you give it to me so I have it?" John asked.

Sherlock read John his number. "I think I'll go now," he said. "But not like the other night."

"Okay. I'll text you so you have my number," he said.

Sherlock smiled. "All right," he said. "I'm glad we talked. I'll see you on Friday. Unless I see you before. Which I won't."

John chuckled. "Okay. See you."

Sherlock hung up the phone. He tipped away the rest of his drink, turned off all the lights in the flat, and lay down on the sofa to do nothing but listen to the music. No worrying, no thinking -- just listening.

"The only caller I've ever had has request Bartok so that's what we're finishing the night with," John announced. "If you don't like it, too bad. Call first tomorrow." John queued up the songs and let his mind wander to his mystery date.

When Sherlock opened his eyes from his sleep, he felt worried. He was pretty sure he had a date. He got up, clicked the kettle on, and then went into the bedroom to splash his face. He looked in the mirror. Could he do this? It'd been so long since he'd even hung out with friends -- could he handle an actual date? He took his tea to the window, opened it up and had a cigarette.

An hour later, Sherlock was waiting at the bottom of the steps for Mrs Hudson to come out. "I think I need to talk," Sherlock said when she opened the door.

"Come in," she said taking off her coat. "My errands can wait."

He followed her in and sat down at the table. "I think I have a date," he said quietly.

"That's wonderful!" she said.

"Is it?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "Where and when?"

"It's Friday for dinner . . . at a restaurant," he said. 

She moved over next to him and fussed his hair. "Don't be nervous," she said. "Just be yourself."

"Right," he said sarcastically.

"Trust me," she said. "You're . . . interesting."

"Right," he said again.

"Sherlock, interesting is good," she said softly. "There's no reason the boy won't like you."

Sherlock wished he could believe her. But he didn't.


	6. A Date

The night before the date, John couldn't sleep for ages. When he did he dreamt about a blurry faced man -- they were kissing and coming back to John's room. He woke up feeling warm and a bit embarrassed so he tried to go back to sleep again. When he woke, he'd slept the day away. He showered and took a long time picking out his clothes. He kept checking his phone, checking the time. Then he realised something and opened a new text.

_I don't know what you look like. How will I find you? -JW_

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, trying not to explode from nerves. He wasn't quite succeeding. He grabbed his phone, sure it was John changing his mind.

_I'll recognise you. SH_

He hit Send and took a deep breath. He needed to figure out how to relax a bit. He got up and opened a bottle of wine and poured himself a drink. He thought about Mrs Hudson's advice. He thought about what had started this, the feeling of a kind of comfort of having John's voice in the flat. Then he thought of the different feeling that arrived when he'd seen John in the cafe. Sherlock was not always very good with feelings, but he knew all of them were true. He'd had almost three glasses of wine before he realised he was starting to feel a little drunk. He got up and had a cigarette before taking a shower. Afterwards he looked in the mirror and prayed he was ready for this.

John arrived at the restaurant and let the server take him to the table. He studied everyone around, wondering if he was here already.

Sherlock walked up to the restaurant, spotting John immediately through the window. He went straight to the table. "I'm Sherlock," he announced. "Your date."

John stood up quickly, immediately wondering why he had done that. He motioned to the seat across from him for Sherlock to sit down. Sherlock was handsome. Handsome enough that John wondered, for a moment, why he was interested in John of all people. "Hi," he finally said. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Just so you know, I'd like to treat you to this meal -- to thank you for your excellent musical tastes," Sherlock said as he sat down. "It's good to meet you as well."

"You don't have to do that. I don't really control the choices . . . I mean I primarily just play from the list," he said. He couldn't stop looking at Sherlock, even though he knew he was probably being weird. He quickly looked to his cup, drinking some water.

"I want to," Sherlock said. "I know I started all this with my odd phone call so let me pay this time. If we were to go out again . . . you can pay, all right?" He looked over and smiled. So far he was felt he was doing okay.

"So . . . who are you?" John asked. "Sorry, I mean . . . I just want to know about you."

Sherlock thought of Mrs Hudson's advice. "I am a chemistry student, I enjoy classical music," he said. "I don't have many friends and I am extremely attracted to you, both intellectually and physically."

John flushed at the suddenness of his words. "I . . . oh. Chemistry, huh? That's more interesting than a house painter," he smiled.

"Yes, I don't know why I said that," Sherlock said. "I'm not very good at social interactions." He gulped some water. "And is what you said true, that you want to be a doctor?"

John nodded. "A trauma surgeon. The radio station is just to earn some extra cash," he smiled.

"Do you do anything . . . I don't know, artistic?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh... no, not really," John said, a bit apologetically. 

"That's all right," Sherlock said. "I'm just trying to get to know you." He looked up when the server came over. He chose something quickly from the menu and then ordered some wine, before looking over at John.

John ordered his meal and watched Sherlock. He seemed nervous. "Um, do you do anything artistic?"

"I do," Sherlock said. "I play the violin. That's how I became so acquainted with Bartok."

"Oh! Wow," John smiled. "That's amazing."

"It isn't," Sherlock said. "It's just unusual." The server brought their wine and Sherlock took a sip.

"Maybe, but it's still impressive," he smiled.

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "What's your most impressive feature?"

John tilted his head as he thought about it. "I don't know. I'm really good at rugby."

"Yes, well, that's impressive, isn't it?" Sherlock said. "Is that a sport?"

John smiled. "Yeah," he said. 

"I'm not very knowledgeable about sport, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. He glanced over. "Do you like the wine?"

"Yeah, it's good. It's a good choice."

"Good," Sherlock said. He looked around the restaurant a little, but the faces meant nothing to him. "So . . . what would you normally be doing on a Friday night if you weren't out on a date with a radio show caller?"

"Most likely homework," John said. "Or hanging out with friends."

"Have you got a lot of friends?" Sherlock asked.

"I suppose," he said. "But not really close ones. Just my team mates."

"I don't have many friends," Sherlock said. He was surprised how easily he found himself opening up. He took a drink of wine. "Which is why it seemed so unusual that I appreciated your voice in my flat -- through the radio obviously. It felt like having a friend there."

John smiled. "I'm glad. Not about . . . I just mean, glad that I could help," he said.

"I could help you with your studies," Sherlock said. "If you need it, I mean -- I have a feeling you're smarter than you think."

John laughed at that. "I might take you up on that offer, but let's not talk about classes now. I want to know more about you."

"I live alone, I keep late hours, and I am very, very clever," Sherlock said. "I am suspicious -- of most people -- and I read about a book a day."

"Wow," John said again. "I'm surprised you're out with a boring guy like me," he teased.

Just then the server appeared with their food. Sherlock picked up his fork and took a small bite, washing it down with some wine. "Well, I don't know why you'd say that," he said. "Clearly, you're very interesting . . . I find you interesting and I do not find boring people interesting." He let the corners of his mouth curl slightly.

John flushed and smiled. "That's really nice." He focused on his food for a while. "I like reading too, not as much as you."

"What kinds of things do you read?" Sherlock asked. 

"It depends. History stuff, mysteries, sci fi," he said. "Lately just a lot of text books."

Sherlock ate a little more food. "I could show you a better way to read textbooks if you want," he said. "If you're not enjoying the things you've got to read."

"That would be great," he smiled. "It's a trick you use?"

"I wouldn't call it a trick," Sherlock said. "More of a skill. But I could show you if you'd like."

"I would, thanks." John smiled and went back to his meal, sipping his wine.

Sherlock ate a few more bites until it appeared as if he'd eaten more than he had. "Are you enjoying our date?" he asked. "I'm probably not supposed to ask that, but I was wondering."

"Yeah, I am," John said. "I'm glad that you called back, that we were able to meet up."

"I am enjoying it as well," Sherlock said. "What else would you like us to know about each other?"

John told Sherlock a little bit about his family and where he grew up and asked a lot of questions about Sherlock's, but he didn't seem quite as eager to share. When they finished their wine and most of their food, John wondered if they could walk around. He didn't want this to end just yet.

Sherlock looked over to get the waiter's attention and paid the bill. "Does the date end now?" he asked. "I don't really know how these things go . . ."

"It doesn't have to. I thought maybe we could take a walk or something."

Sherlock smiled. "All right," he said as he stood up. His head felt off balance for a second and then he slipped his coat around him and held out his hand to hold John's.

John smiled and took Sherlock's hand as they left. "This was a lot of fun."

"It was," Sherlock agreed and he really meant it. He couldn't believe that just by following Mrs Hudson's advice, he was able to relax enough to enjoy himself so much. He looked up into the sky. "Are we going anywhere in particular or just wandering?"

"Just wandering, I suppose. I just didn't want to go yet. Do you have a place you like to go?"

"Why don't we wander over this way?" Sherlock said. "I know a nice place."

"Okay," he said, following Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock led them down a few streets and through an alley until they end up behind a restaurant. "Sorry about the bins," he said. "But look," he added pointing to the brick wall.

John looked at the wall and smiled. The art looked amazing. "Did you find this or do this?" 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I didn't do it," he said. "But I think it's brilliant."

John looked back at the painting and smiled as he looked it over. "Is this some secret spot of yours you only bring special people?" He teased.

"I've never brought anyone here," Sherlock said seriously. "You're . . . different." He closed his eyes for a second and leaned back against the brick. Suddenly he felt comfortable and sleepy.

John smiled softly and leaned back as well, looking over at Sherlock and studying his profile. He leaned over quickly and kissed his cheek before leaning back again.

Sherlock moved his head back but quickly realised what had happened. "Thanks," he mumbled a bit stupidly. "Thanks."

John smiled softly and took Sherlock's hand again.

Sherlock pulled John closer and gave him a soft kiss on the mouth. "Should I walk you home?" he asked.

"That's okay," John said. "It's not very far."

Sherlock glanced up. "I'll walk you anyway," he said and pushed himself off the wall. He grabbed John's hand and they began to walk.

John walked with Sherlock toward the residence hall, talking about different classes and enjoying Sherlock's small rant about the professors he thought were complete idiots. At his building they stopped outside. "You'll be okay going home alone?" he asked. 

"I am," Sherlock said. "Thank you for the nice date, John. I don't know that I deserved it but thank you."

John smiled softly and leaned up to kiss his mouth softly. "You did. I did too. I'll see you again soon," he smiled. 

Sherlock smiled back. He squeezed John's hand and then turned to walk home.

John went up to his room, grinning the whole way up. He vainly found himself thinking he was glad Sherlock was as handsome as he was -- having only heard his voice before tonight John had been nervous about who he was going to meet. And then he was so nice and fun and . . . and charming. John smiled stupidly again. 

Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat. He felt suddenly tired and incredibly thirsty. He went inside, drank two full glasses of water and then crashed out on his bed, dizzy with the thoughts of how successful the date had been.


	7. Mrs Hudson Approves

In the morning, Sherlock first opened his eyes. Then his hands went to his head which was aching. But then he remembered last night. He rolled over and grabbed his phone.

_I had a good time last night. SH_

John had just come out of the shower when he saw his phone light up.

_Yes, me too. -JW_

_Perhaps we could see each other again this weekend? SH_

_I would really love that. -JW_

_Tell me where and when. I can work around you. SH_

_I'm free this weekend so anything is fine. Maybe an art show or something? -JW_

Sherlock opened a window on his phone and quickly searched.

_I've got something in mind. How about 3 this afternoon? SH_

_Okay, that works for me! Where should we meet? -JW  
_

_Where I left you last night? SH_

_Okay. -JW_

_See you soon. SH_

He sat up in bed and stretched a little, before dragging himself into the bathroom for a shower. He looked at himself in the mirror -- he couldn't imagine what John might find attractive, but he caught himself smiling as soon as he thought of John. He put his pajamas and dressing gown back on and went out into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

A few minutes later, he looked up when he heard footfall on the steps. "Come in, Mrs Hudson," he said.

"Well?" she asked, holding something behind her back.

"It went well," he said, trying to conceal a smile.

"Good, let's celebrate!" she said, pulling out a carafe and moving to the kitchen to get two glasses.

"It's barely noon," Sherlock said. "I don't need to get you a sponsor, do I?"

She came into the sitting room and handed him a glass. "It's only Buck's Fizz -- it's practically breakfast," she said. She clinked her glass with his and then sat down. "Well, do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

Sherlock took a sip of the drink and crinkled his nose a little before taking another swallow. "It was a very nice date," he said. "We just talked and ate and went on a walk. But it was fine. I managed not to do anything horrible the whole evening."

"Sherlock," she scolded. "You're not horrible."

 "You tell me I am all the time," he said.

"Well, that's different," she said. "I mean, deep down you're not and that's why I knew this boy would like you."

"Well, you didn't really know that, did you?" he said. "I mean, you guessed and as it turns out, you guessed correctly."

"Don't be horrible," she said. "I was right -- is it so much to ask for you to acknowledge that? God knows I've got to listen to you go on and on when you figure something out. I gave you good advice and now you've had a good date. Say it." She took a sip of her drink.

"Fine," he said reluctantly, smiling cheekily from behind his glass.

"And do you think you'll be having another good date soon?" she asked quietly.

"Very subtle, Mrs Hudson," he said. "You've said it so casually, I've not even caught on how nosy you are being. But yes, we have another date."

"Soon?"

"In a few hours."

"Oh well done, Sherlock," she said, finishing off her drink. "That's a very good sign. A very good sign indeed."

"Well, we'll see," he said. "Perhaps he won't like me in the day time -- I'm much more likeable when it's dark."

"Stop being like that," she said, getting up and fussing his hair. "You are a very likeable young man and now you cannot deny it -- obviously he wouldn't be spending time with you if he didn't like you." She moved to the door. "Now go get dressed -- pajamas are not suitable for afternoon dates." She smiled genuinely and then turned and left.

Sherlock sat still for a moment. Maybe John really did like him. Maybe Mrs Hudson was right. He picked up his empty glass and mug and went into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Then he turned it off, poured the rest of Mrs Hudson's carafe into his glass and drank it while he had a cigarette at the window. Then he got dressed and was ready to go meet John for their second date.


	8. An Afternoon Date Turns Into An Evening Date

Sherlock saw John waiting for him as he approached and for a second he thought about calling out to him. But that was very unlike Sherlock, so he waited until he got closer and John noticed him. He waved his hand a little. "Hello," he said when he got close.

"Hi," John smiled. He moved close, hesitated awkwardly, then kissed his cheek quickly. "Hi."

"Thanks," Sherlock said. He reached out for his hand. "So are you ready for a little adventure?" he asked with a smile.

John grinned. "I'm excited," he said. 

Sherlock glanced over. "Well, don't get your hopes up too much," he said. "I don't know if you'll like it." He led them down and over a few streets until they got to what looked like an abandoned charity shop. "Trust me," he said. "Let's have a look around and see if there's anything we want to buy."

"I trust you," John smiled. 

Sherlock grabbed John's hand again as they wandered up and down the aisles. Suddenly, he stopped and picked up an antique frame, holding a sepia photograph of a cricket player. "Oh my god," he said. "This is my grandfather."

John made an awkward face. "That's my ex," he said.

"John," Sherlock said seriously, grabbing his arms. "That means . . . that means, you're my son."

John's mouth dropped in shock. "Let's run away to the forest where no one can judge our love."

"Forest?" Sherlock said, surprised for a minute. "Like camping?"

John tilted his head. "We should find a cabin if we're to live in exile forever."

"Oh right," Sherlock said, catching on. "I can't cut wood, though -- you'll have to be the brawn."

"I can do that," he smiled. 

"What will I do?" Sherlock asked. "I can't imagine there's much use for violin or chemistry in a cabin."

"Cooking is like chemistry," he smiled. 

"Nice try, but that's not going to happen," Sherlock said. "I guess I'll have to learn to . . . whittle," he said and a laugh caught in his throat. It turned into a small burp, which was quiet and unnoticeable but which tasted like orange juice.

John laughed with him. "We'll have to live in the eyes of the public then, taking their judgment."

"That, I am definitely skilled at," Sherlock said. He set the frame down and wandered a bit more. "Here," he said, grabbing a hat off a hook. "Put this on -- you'll look good."

John raised his brows but wore the hat and smiled, modelling it for Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Very handsome. You look like . . . well, like you in a hat, I suppose. Sorry, that's not very poetic." He felt his face flush a little.

"It's good, though?" John smiled, tugging Sherlock closer by the loops of his trousers.

Sherlock glanced down, surprised but also intrigued by John's movement. "Indeed," he said, stepping a little closer to lean down to give him a kiss, even as he bumped his head on the hat's brim.

John kissed him back softly before moving to take the hat off. "Let's keep exploring."

Sherlock grabbed the hat and took it with him as they walked. "Looking for anything in particular?" he asked, glancing over the shelves.

John shook his head. "Are you?"

"Not really," Sherlock said. "I do like this place, though. I don't know why -- I suppose I'm just curious about the objects, what their stories are."

John smiled. "Yeah, I could see that. What's in the back there?"

Sherlock glanced up. "I'll show you but children aren't allowed back there . . . are you sure you can handle it?" he asked cheekily.

John grinned. "I think so. But if I get scared I'll hold your hand."

Sherlock led John to the back, nodding at the man behind a small desk. He opened a door to a room that was filled with antique medical equipment and oddities. "Some of this is a bit disturbing," he said. "But it's all extremely intriguing."

John looked around the room. It was creepy, but that's what made it interesting. "This is . . . wild . . ."

"I know," Sherlock said. "Look at this." He held up a jar which held a deformed skull. "If you had been this guy's doctor, do you think you could have helped him?"

"Depends what was wrong with him," John said. He examined it closely, shivering slightly. He looked away and spotted another one, a normal skull not in a jar. "That's real!" 

Sherlock looked over. "Is it?" he said. He set the hat on top of it. "He looks quite handsome -- perhaps I should buy this for him instead of you."

"Hmm, is he going to give you kisses too?"

"He's got no lips so I assume that's a no," Sherlock said. He looked over at John. "Does that mean you like kissing me, that you want to keep doing it?"

John nodded. "I like you very much. And kissing you."

"I like you too," Sherlock said. "And the kissing." He set the skull down and moved over to look at some tools.

"Would it be odd if I got this for you?" John asked, holding up the skull. 

Sherlock looked over. "You don't have to, John," he said. "I like it -- even without lips -- but don't feel you have to."

"I want to," he smiled. "It's unique, interesting like you."

"All right," Sherlock said with a smile. "But I'm going to buy you this hat and you've got to wear it."

"I will. On our next date," John smiled.

Sherlock's smile widened. "Look, are you hungry or something?" he asked. "I'm looking forward to our next date, but I'm not ready for this one to end."

"I'm not either. Let's buy our presents and find something for an early dinner."

They walked back out to the front and paid for their things. As they left, Sherlock said, "Are you going to put the hat on?"

John took the hat and put it on, modelling it for Sherlock again. 

Sherlock smiled and pushed on his arm a little. "I changed my mind," he said. "You look too handsome -- I'll be distracted and worried that every person who sees you will try to take you away."

"I wouldn't let them," he smiled. He tugged it off half way, waiting for Sherlock to decide.

Sherlock grabbed his hand. "Come on," he said, hurrying them. "Keep it on -- it's chilly and I don't want you to catch cold."

John left the hat and quickly followed after Sherlock. 

Sherlock led them to a little restaurant, opening the door for John. They grabbed a seat in back, and Sherlock flipped through the menu even though he wasn't really hungry. "I need warming up," he said. "I think I'll get some soup and maybe a glass of wine." He pushed the menu aside and then glanced around. "Sorry this isn't very fancy."

"It didn't have to be fancy. This is perfect," John smiled. 

Sherlock couldn't believe how well it was going. Perhaps he'd been wrong about himself, perhaps he was cut out for all this social interaction business after all. The server came over and he ordered the soup of the day -- he didn't even bother asking what it was -- and whatever wine went well with it.

John ordered a hot steak sandwich, leaning back in his seat. "Do you like living on your own?"

"I do," Sherlock admitted. "I don't really care for students -- present company excluded, of course. I like to . . . work, I guess. I seem to spend my time differently."

"Hmm, I could see the perks of living alone in a proper flat."

"But you like to be around people, right? Students . . . people our age?"

"I suppose," he said. 

The waiter brought over Sherlock's wine and he took a sip. "Tell me something you do like, John Watson," he said. "Something you like very much."

"Besides you?" he smiled.

"No, seriously," Sherlock said. "What's your favourite . . . thing?" He was totally aware that it was a vague question, but it felt like it was important for some reason.

"Hmm. You've put me on the spot," John laughed, trying to think. "My favourite thing? Um . . . adventure. Like . . . not being bored. Stuck."

Sherlock smiled. He found that a satisfactory answer. "If you could go anywhere, do anything for the rest of the night, what would you want to do?" he asked. "What adventure?"

"Tonight? I know it's a bit cold, but we could find a heated pool, and it would be fun to sneak in and go swimming."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock said. "Swimming's a bit . . . wet, isn't it?"

"We'll take our clothes off. I mean, up to our pants," he said.

"Wet and nude?" Sherlock said, slightly surprised. "I didn't think that was the kind of adventure you meant." He wasn't quite sure what to make of John's comment -- to be fair, except for the swimming part, it sounded pretty intriguing. He buried his face in his wine glass to avoid having to say anymore.

"Not nude, we'll have our pants," John flushed and chugged his water. "It was stupid."

"It wasn't stupid, John," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to imply it was. I hope you're not angry but I don't want to go swimming. I don't really like swimming but more importantly . . . I'm not actually wearing pants." He smiled and gave John a wink.

John flushed lightly and fought a smile as he drank more water. "I don't mind what we do. Really."

"I've got an idea but before I explain, I've got a quick question. Nine minutes ago, you implied that you liked me very much," Sherlock said. "Is that true?"

"It's very true," he said.

Sherlock took a sip of his drink. "Back to your plans for this evening," he said. "The swimming pool -- were you motivated by your desire to actually swim or was it something else? The sneaking in part, perhaps?"

"The sneaking in. And . . . " he trailed off and shook his head. He blushed and cleared his throat. "Sneaking in."

Sherlock smiled. The waiter arrived and set down their food. Once he'd gone, Sherlock leaned in a little. "There are other places we could sneak into . . . places where we wouldn't have to get wet," he said.

John glanced up. "Where?" 

"Well," Sherlock said. "It depends what other kinds of things that you like. For example, if you like money, we could sneak into a bank. If you like driving, we could sneak into a car lot. If you like books, we could sneak into a library. Any of those take your fancy?"

"We'll get arrested at the bank, and maybe at the car lot. Let's do the library."

"Are you serious? I don't mean the college one -- I know another one, near where my brother works. We could go once it gets properly dark -- we could do it if you really want to," Sherlock said. "If we caught, we'll be in trouble. But we won't get caught."

John bit his lip. Trouble could mean, well, trouble, but he didn't mention it. "We won't get caught? Promise?"

"No, I promise, we won't get caught," Sherlock said. He sat back a little. "Let's finish eating and we can decide then." He finished his drink and got the waiter's attention for another one and then tucked into his soup. He was surprised to find that it was quite satisfying, and he ate the whole bowl and the bread as well.

"Do your friends know about me?" he asked. "I mean, that we've had two dates?"

"Not yet," John said. "I've not seen them properly yet."

Sherlock looked over at him quickly. "Okay," he said plainly. "I don't have any friends to tell but I did tell my landlady, I guess," he added, surprised he'd confessed that and hoping it was okay.

John smiled. "I'm not hiding it. I can't wait to tell them."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because I'm not like them . . . I'm not like anyone," Sherlock explained. "I'm not interested in getting to know them or in being friends with them. I'm just interested in you. Your friendship."

"Just friendship?" John asked carefully.

"No," Sherlock admitted, looking down at his plate. "But also friendship."

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to," he promised.

"Good," Sherlock said. "And I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to do. But I'm happy to help you do things you do want to do. Especially if they lean toward the criminal," he added with a smile.

John grinned. "I'll trust you to keep me safe," he said

"You know what?" Sherlock said. "I will keep you safe."

John smiled and leaned back, full and happy. "Okay. And I'll keep you safe."

"Deal," Sherlock said. "So, you think you'd like to give it a try? I think it'll only be mildly dangerous." He raised his eyebrows up and down and then pulled a face.

John laughed. "Yes, let's do it," he said, taking out his wallet to pay.

Sherlock finished off the last of his drink and then set his glass down. "Yes, let's," he said.

John paid the bill and put on his coat. "Don't forget Billy," he smiled.

Sherlock looked over. "Who's Billy?"

"Oh, that's why I named our new friend," he said, pointing to the skull.

Sherlock grabbed the package. "He might come in useful," he said as they headed out. "Do you mind walking over there?" he said. "It'll buy us a bit of time and . . . will be nice." He reached over and looped their arms.

Sherlock walked quietly for a few moments. He fancied a cigarette but didn't think John would appreciate it. He looked around at the people passing them and wondered where they were going. He was sure that none of them was going to do what John and he were going to do, and he quite liked that idea.


	9. The Library

"Where does your brother work?" John asked.

"In an office, well, all over, I suppose," Sherlock said. "He works for the government and . . . he's horrible really."

"Oh. Is he a lot older than you?" 

"A bit but he seems like he's much older," Sherlock said. "He tries to control me." He put his hands in his pocket. "I don't want to talk anymore about him. . . he's horrible."

"Okay, sorry. I have an older sister, we don't really get on either."

Sherlock looked over quickly. "Why?"

"I don't really want to talk about it either," he admitted, 

"Well, there's something we've got in common," Sherlock said with a smile. "Okay, there's the building up there. There's a door in back that's relatively concealed. You'll stand guard, yeah? Maybe around that way a bit?"

"Okay," John nodded. "I can do that."

Sherlock looked round a few times. "There are cameras there and there," he said, nodding in two directions. "When I whistle, walk around the building and stay close to the trees as you do. Then move quickly to the door and we'll be in."

John looked everywhere Sherlock mentioned. "Okay." 

Sherlock squeezed John's arm and then moved smoothly down the path, looking forward. When he got near the door, he darted over, quickly picked the lock, and then whistled before sliding inside. He kept the door cracked, waiting for John.

John heard the whistle. He followed around the trees like Sherlock said, watched for the cameras and then quickly headed for the door.

Sherlock pulled him inside quickly. "We're in," he said, smiling widely.

John smiled. "Are there cameras inside?"

"Depends," Sherlock said. "Where are we headed? Is there anything in particular you'd like to do or look at?"

"Hmm, let's just wander around. I'm sure we'll find something."

"All right," Sherlock said. "I quite like this library actually. It's the one I used to come to when I was young. Let's go up to the next floor." He held out his hand to lead John to the steps.

"Did you spend a lot of time here?" John asked.

"I did," Sherlock said. "It probably sounds stupid, but I suppose I saw the books like friends." He was surprised he'd confessed that.

"I felt that way about the park. There was one by my house and I'd go there a lot."

"But now we're friends for real," Sherlock said. Once they got upstairs, he pulled John down one of the aisles. "I'll show you my favourite book."

John followed close to Sherlock. "Is it about science?"

"No," Sherlock said. He reached up and pulled a book off the shelf. "It's about kittens."

John giggled. "You're so sensitive." 

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said. He put the book back on the shelf. "Do you want to hear a secret?"

"Always," he said. He smiled and stepped closer.

"I have to whisper it," Sherlock said. "Since we're in the library and all." He too stepped closer, moving John back a little against the shelves. He leaned down and whispered, "I think it's quite sexy that we're in here all alone."

John looked up and met his eyes. "I agree," he whispered. He held Sherlock's hips and pulled him just a bit closer. 

Sherlock moved his mouth to John's, first softly moving his lips over it before beginning to kiss him. John looped his arms around his neck, kissing him back against the shelves.

Sherlock was memorising the taste of John. He held John's hips, pulling their bodies even closer. John bumped the shelves as they kissed. It was perfect. He licked out to taste Sherlock, deepening the kiss. Sherlock felt his whole body warm and his pulse sped up. He began to roll his hips slightly, enjoying every sensation. John moaned softly, moving his body to match Sherlock's. He tilted his head, lacing his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

"God," Sherlock exhaled. "This feels good."

"It really does," John murmured, playing with his hair. 

"But maybe we should stop," Sherlock said, pulling his head but not his body back.

"Do we have to? I mean, right this second?" 

"I think so," Sherlock said. "I know there will be consequences for you if we get caught and I wouldn't want you to associate our first proper kiss with an arrest." He smiled. "We should go."

John bit his lip. "Okay," he agreed. 

"We could . . . go back to my flat?" Sherlock suggested.

John flushed lightly but nodded. "I'd like that," he said, untangling himself from Sherlock slowly.

Sherlock smiled. They moved back downstairs and then slid out the back door one at a time, sneaking quickly out of range of the cameras. Sherlock grasped John's hand as they walked back to the flat.


	10. Panic

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. The cold air on his face stung a little but felt good. They chatted a little about work they each had to finish this weekend. Soon enough they were at Baker Street, and Sherlock led them both up to the flat. 

"Would you like a glass of wine?" he said, after hanging up both of their coats.

John looked around the flat and tried to take everything in. "Um, yeah," he nodded. "Your flat is interesting."

"It is," Sherlock said as he moved to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard doors but didn't see any wine. All that was there was an almost empty whiskey bottle, which he thought might not make the best impression. Then he noticed Mrs Hudson's empty mimosa carafe in the sink. 

"Um, I just need to nip downstairs to get the wine," he said as he quickly moved to the door. "Make yourself comfortable -- just be careful with anything over there or maybe just don't touch anything. But . . . make yourself comfortable," he repeated as he headed downstairs.

John smiled and watched him leave. Instead of sitting down he moved around the room for a better look at everything without touching any of it. Beakers, medical books, science books . . . everything about Sherlock was very interesting. He moved back to the sofa and sat down to wait.

Sherlock knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. When she pulled it open, he stepped in and said, "I need a bottle of wine."

"Why? What's wrong?" she asked.

"There is literally nothing wrong in the world," he said with a smile. "I'm on a date actually. I mean, my date's upstairs and I offered him wine and I don't have any."

"I see," Mrs Hudson said, matching his smile. "So everything's going well? Is he going to stay over? When am I going to get to meet him?" she teased.

"I don't know the answers to those questions," Sherlock said. "Except for one. Yes, it's going well."

"You should follow my advice more often," she said, moving over to her drinks cabinet. She looked around and then turned back, holding a bottle of whiskey. "Sorry -- no wine. I've got this though," she said.

"I need wine," Sherlock said quickly. "I offered wine."

"Well, explain you've not got any. Besides, if what you're looking for is a nightcap before bed," she teased, giving him a wink. "Whiskey works better anyway." 

"But I've got whiskey upstairs," he said. "A glass worth at least."

"The extra bottle I gave you the other week is almost gone?" she asked. "And you were mocking me earlier for having a problem."

"I just --" Sherlock started and then stopped abruptly. "Oh my god," he said. "I see what's happened now . . . it's all gone wrong. . ." He stepped back a little and put his hand to his head.

"What's gone wrong?" Mrs Hudson asked, moving over. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Me," he stated. "I'm what's wrong." He leaned back against the wall. "Your advice wasn't what helped at all. I was drinking -- I'd been drinking each time . . . to relax. I could have never made that first phone call without . . . and even today with your stupid Buck's Fizz. . . oh God." He stopped and rubbed his face for a moment before looking at her again. "Give me the whiskey," he said.

"Why?" Mrs Hudson asked, sliding the bottle behind her back. "I don't like the look on your face -- why do you want the whiskey?"

"I need a drink down here," he said. "I need it to help me keep fooling him. He's upstairs in my flat right now -- I need it to get through the next hour and then it can stop. I'll stop calling him, stop pretending, and just go back to being the regular me . . . alone." He reached for the bottle.

Mrs Hudson turned and set it down. "Sherlock Holmes," she said sternly. "You will do no such thing." She looked at his face. "I need some answers now, please. Have you been drinking to excess? Do I need to be concerned?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I was never drunk, not at all. It just . . . helped me relax so I could talk to him. I need it to talk to him."

"You could talk to him when you were relaxed? Talk? Have fun?" she asked. "You've kissed him, I presume -- you could kiss him when you were relaxed?"

"Yes," he said and moved to grab the bottle.

"Hold it right there," she said. "When was the last time you had a drink?"

He stopped and glanced at the clock. "At dinner, around five," he said.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"When you walked in a few moments ago, Sherlock," she said. "You were smiling. You seemed very relaxed to me. A glass of wine with dinner over four hours ago did not cause that."

"But I --"

"No," she interrupted. "No, Sherlock, you're not thinking logically. Maybe it gave you enough courage to make that first phone call, but your dates have not been successful because of alcohol."

"Yes, they have," he said. "I can't do it -- I can't be around him if I'm worried about everything. I'm strange -- you know I am, you said so yourself -- and all I'll be thinking about is if he really likes me. The drink . . . it just helps me not worry . . ."

She stepped a little closer and softly touched his arm. "He came home with you, Sherlock," she said. "That means he likes you. You don't need to worry. You just need to be you. You are who he likes."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. He played back everything in his head -- the first night hearing John's voice, the phone calls, the texts, last night and earlier today. He thought about the kissing at the library. He hadn't been drunk during any of that. Maybe he'd initially been a little afraid, but he hadn't felt afraid last night. This afternoon he'd have gladly gone out without having a drink -- it was pure chance Mrs Hudson had brought that carafe upstairs. He had been himself the whole time, just the version of himself that John brought out -- John who was upstairs waiting for him. Sherlock didn't need to be afraid anymore. 

"God, it's annoying when you're right," he said. "Do you at least have some biscuits I can offer him?"

She smiled. She grabbed a pack of biscuits and pushed him toward the door. "Don't get crumbs in the bed," she said with a wink.


	11. A Friend In Sherlock's Flat

"Sorry -- no wine," Sherlock said as he came in. "Tea okay instead?" 

"That's okay. The tea is fine," John smiled. "Was that that landlady you told about me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, moving in to put on the kettle. "She suggested biscuits . . . she knows better than I how to do these things right." He got out two mugs and put the biscuits on the plate. He turned around. "It's a good flat," he said, half statement, half question. "There are definitely advantages to not being in a residence hall."

John smiled. "It's quieter. And more interesting," he said.

"It must be more private as well," Sherlock said, pouring the tea and bringing the cups and plate in. "I am a private person, as I've said. Besides my brother and the landlady, you're the first guest I've ever had here."

"I'm honoured," John smiled, taking a biscuit from the tray. 

"No," Sherlock said seriously, looking up. "I'm honoured. I'm not very good with people -- you must know that by now yet you've let me be myself without mocking me. I appreciate that."

"Mock you? You're brilliant," John said. His face flushed lightly. "I knew I'd like you from the moment you called."

"I didn't know," Sherlock said. "Not logically. But I should have. I should have trusted there was a reason that you had such an effect on me." He moved over to the sofa next to John. "Besides," he said. "You're the one who's brilliant -- you came up with that idea about sneaking into the library."

"No, I had the pervy idea," he said, hiding behind his tea.

"Did I come up with the library thing then?" Sherlock asked. "I guess you're right -- I am quite brilliant." He took a sip and then looked over and smiled. "Your idea, though . . ." he said softly. "Can I ask, was your motivation actually to sneak in and swim or was it more to get me out of my clothes?"

John flushed darker. "I . . . I was suggesting just pants . . . that's not too bad, right?" 

"But I'm not wearing pants, remember?" Sherlock said. He sat forward and set his mug on the table. When he leaned back, he moved a little closer. He was neither afraid nor drunk -- he was comfortable and he trusted John. Those things were unusual, but they were real.

"Can I kiss you again?" Sherlock asked softly.

John nodded, leaning a bit closer. "I want to kiss you again too."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John hungrily. He was remembering the feeling at the library of pressing against John and kissing him and not wanting to stop. He didn't want to stop now either.

John made a small muffled sound of surprise at the intensity, but he quickly returned it before Sherlock stopped. He dug his fingers into Sherlock's hair and held him close. Sherlock's body warmed again. When was the last time someone had touched his hair? He leaned in even more, pushing John back against the sofa a little. John lay down properly and pulled Sherlock over him, surrounding him. He tugged Sherlock's shirt free and slipped his hand underneath to feel his skin. It was warm, and he imagined it flushed like his own.

"John," Sherlock exhaled. "Is this okay?"

John nodded. "It's perfect," he said. "I don't want to stop..."

Sherlock kissed him again as he began to roll his hips against John's. His breath had changed and his heart pounded fast. John moved with him, one leg on the ground so Sherlock fit better between his legs. He flushed as he started getting harder.

Sherlock slipped his hand to John's trouser button. "Can I?" he whispered.

John met his gaze and nodded. 

Sherlock flicked up the button and lowered the zip before sliding his hand inside. He rested it over John's cock, feeling the hard heat permeating through his pants. He began kissing John's mouth again as his hand slowly rubbed his cock.

John gasped softly when he felt Sherlock's hand. "I . . . I want to touch you too . . ."

Sherlock shifted a little. "There's no room," he mumbled as he slid his hand inside John's pants and began to stroke him properly.

John pushed up into his hand, burying his face into Sherlock's neck and kissing there, down to his collar bone and back up again to his jaw.

"Is this how you like it?" Sherlock said in between kisses. "Tell me what you want."

"It feels good . . . I still want to touch you too."

"Do you want to move?" Sherlock asked. "We could go into my room."

John nodded. "Yes please," he said, kissing Sherlock again.

Sherlock pushed himself up on his arms, slowly nipping at John's lip before letting go. "Come on," he said, getting up and adjusting himself slightly before grabbing John's hand and pulling him toward his bedroom.

John followed eagerly. "I don't normally do this sort of thing. I know that's a cliche, but it's true. I feel different with you." 

"You know I don't do it," Sherlock said, grabbing him. "But it is different . . . because it's you." He lifted his hands to John's head and gave him a deep kiss.

John returned the kiss, dazed for a moment before getting his hands to Sherlock's waistband, trying to get his trousers off.

Sherlock moved a little trying to help John, and then he pulled on John's waistband, letting his trousers fall to the floor. He slipped his hand inside John's pants again, beginning to stroke as he continued to kiss him.

John leaned against Sherlock, palming his cock. "Let's lie down . . ."

Sherlock turned them slowly as they dropped onto the mattress. He rolled over flat, pulling John to encourage him to crawl over him. John climbed over Sherlock and kissed him hard, stroking his cock slowly.

"God, yes," Sherlock moaned. He dropped his hand for a moment and just melted against the bed as John touched him.

John looked down to watch his hand, to look at Sherlock's cock as he stroked it. He moaned softly at the sight. "You're gorgeous," he murmured.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then he opened them and reached down to John's cock again. He felt their bodies rock the bed as he stretched his head up to kiss John.

John kissed him eagerly as he moved over him, panting and moaning. "Sherlock . . ."

"John," Sherlock responded breathily. "Don't stop . . . feels good."

John nodded, his body moving over Sherlock's as they touched each other. He kissed Sherlock hard again.

Sherlock lifted his other arm and gripped John's arm. "John," he called out, as his body arched off the bed. His orgasm passed through his body, filling him with pleasure. He tried to keep a steady stroke so John could feel this good as well. John groaned as he watched Sherlock let go, easily following him over the edge. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's body, pulling him close. "That was . . .good," he exhaled.

John nodded into Sherlock's throat as he caught his breath.

Sherlock shifted slightly so that he could see John's face. "I'm glad we met, John Watson," he said.

"Me too, Sherlock Holmes." He smiled and kissed his mouth softly.

"Do you want to stay the night?" Sherlock asked, quickly adding, "I'd like you to."

"I was hoping to," John nodded. "Can I clean up a bit?"

"Definitely," Sherlock said, moving out from underneath him. He got out of the bed, grabbing at his trousers to slip them on, and said, "Let me go first and then I'll bring us back a cup of tea."

"Okay," he nodded, turning onto his back.

Sherlock stopped into the bathroom, washing himself up and splashing his face with some water. He set out a clean flannel on the sink and then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

John got up and padded to the bathroom. After cleaning up he went back to Sherlock's bed and draped the blankets over his waist while he waited.

Sherlock returned with the mugs, handing one to John. "You should probably know," he said. "I've never had anyone sleep over -- not just here, I mean, ever." He climbed into bed. "So if I'm supposed to do something special, you'll probably need to tell me."

John shook his head and smiled. "This is perfect," he said.

Sherlock smiled and took a drink. "You are," he said quietly into his mug.

John flushed lightly and leaned over on Sherlock's shoulder, pressing a kiss there.

Sherlock took another sip of tea. He thought about the last twenty four hours and how good it had been. He hoped it would stay like this.

John sipped at his tea as they cuddled in the silence and warmth of Sherlock's bed. When he finished, he set the cup down and lay down with a happy sigh. 

Sherlock turned off the light and then curled toward John. "Good night, John Watson," he whispered.


	12. John's Voice On The Radio

John tugged the microphone a bit closer and grinned as he greeted his nonexistent listeners. No. His one dedicated listener of the last six months. "Thanks for joining me for another night. Homework? Trouble sleeping? This is the station for you. Now you all may be tired of hearing it, but I'm not tired of saying it. We're starting the night off with Bartok, a dedication to my wonderful boyfriend. Enjoy."

John started the song and leaned back in his seat, grinning. 

Sherlock had just poured a cup of tea when he heard John's voice. He sat in his chair and listened to the song. When it finished, he got up and moved to his desk to work. But before he started he sent a quick text.

_Thank you as always. I'll have a cup of tea ready for you when you get home. SH_


End file.
